


Road's End

by purple_bookcover



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Older Characters, POV First Person, Post-Canon, soft old men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22871515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_bookcover/pseuds/purple_bookcover
Summary: Felix is much older now, but still wandering Fodlan alone, fighting bandits and ruffians as he meanders restlessly from place to place.One day, he happens upon a inn. An inn that Ashe runs.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro, Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 24
Kudos: 69
Collections: Felix Birthday Week 2020





	1. Meandering Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter follows Felix's Meadering Sword ending, but many, many years later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for day four of "Felix BDay Bash," prompt "scars | happy/alternative ending." 
> 
> For this, I just wanted to explore what it would be like to see these characters much, much older than we get to experience them in the game. I really enjoyed getting in their heads and aging them way up.
> 
> #
> 
> For this and the rest of Felix BDay Week, I am doing ASHELIX WEEK. I am posting 7 new fics. On Ashe Week (in March), I'll be posting Chapter 2 of ALL seven fics. So come back then for the conclusion to these stories.

Grow strong so you may live, and live to grow stronger. That's what I was taught.

#

_Even after the war's end, skirmishes continued to break out across Fódlan. Bored and restless in his capacity as Duke Fraldarius, Felix abandoned his title, jumping at the opportunity to wield a sword again. Little is known of his whereabouts thereafter, but even many years later, soldiers continued to whisper rumors of a mysterious man able to deal swift death to scores of enemies._

#

“Traveling alone is dangerous,” the bandit says. “Didn't anyone warn you, old man?”

I keep walking. There's no need to heed the jabs. But the bandits follow. I hear their footsteps, count. Three people, unless there are others hiding off the side of the road. Unlikely, but not impossible. I have enough scars to know better than to presume the three I hear are the only three. 

“Hey,” the bandit calls, “old man. We're talking to you.” He spits loudly.

I still grind my teeth, even after so many years, still get so angry I feel my whole jaw locking up. I’ve never been any good at stopping it once it starts, so I turn, facing three men waggling knives at me.

“Give us your purse,” a bandit with missing teeth says.

“No,” I say.

A bandit with bright red hair jabs his knife at me, punctuating his threats as he talks. “You don’t need to die out here, old man. Your coins aren’t worth your life.”

I answer by drawing my sword, a sword the three idiots apparently didn’t even notice until naked steel points at them. I’m more confident by the moment that there’s no reinforcements lurking in the bushes.

One of the men has the sense to back away, but Missing Teeth snorts, spits a glob of phlegm on the road. “You’re gonna hurt yourself trying to use that thing, old man.”

I show him just how wrong he is.

The fight goes the way most fights do. And I have seen so many in five long decades. There’s no need to relive all the details. They change little, whether it be bandits on the road or an army at the gates.

When Missing Teeth dies on my blade, his companions flee. I let them, cleaning the sword, continuing on my wandering way.

#

The inn is like every other inn. Dirty, smelling like wood and horses and spilled ale, and most importantly, cheap. A few coins get me a meal and a drink. The serving girl, more observant than the bandits, does notice the sword I keep on my belt, tucked behind a cloak, but she doesn’t make a fuss about it. I eat alone, noticing how the hard bench makes my hip hurt after another day of walking, trying not to think about how it’ll feel even worse in the morning. It’s always worse in the morning.

Someone sits across from me. I keep my head down, hoping they’re not the talkative type.

They are.

“What brings you here?”

The voice is soft. It takes me a moment realize it’s a man who addressed me. Something in that slightly nasally tone tugs at my memory, but I just shrug.

Then he laughs.

Even roughened by time, there’s no mistaking the sound.

I look up into minty eyes still bright above a field of freckles. Time has carved furrows along the sides of Ashe’s mouth and scratched crow’s feet around his eyes, but there’s a strange, boyish quality lingering in that face. His hair is longer, much longer, curling over one shoulder in a low silver ponytail that spills down one side of his chest.

“It is you,” Ashe says. “I wasn’t quite sure, it’s been so long, but there’s no mistaking you up close. How have you been, Felix?”

I look around, eyes darting, but no one reacts to the name.

“Busy,” I say.

It’s a lie and Ashe just smiles, the gesture all the more patient for the weathering of time.

“You?” I ask, more to change the subject than anything else.

Ashe waves a hand. “Busy,” he says. “I run this place. Started as a cook, but the woman who built it left it to me when she passed. That was, oh, almost twenty years ago now, goddess rest her soul.”

I take a closer look at the inn, seeing it for the first time. Sure, it still smells like spilled beer, but now that I know, I notice Ashe in the details. The flowers set in vases on some of the tables. The paintings of landscapes. The mix of patrons, not the usual homogeneous gatherings I’ve seen in a dozen different nations’ inns, but a patronage who could have come from anywhere from Faerghus to Enbarr to Duscar to Sreng.

“Has Dedue ever seen this place?” I ask.

“Yes, he helped get it up and running when I took over,” Ashe says. “Unfortunately, he couldn’t stay long, what with his duties back in Fhirdiad, but he visits when he can.” There’s a wistfulness to Ashe’s tone that tells a longer story than what he’s offered.

“How was the meal?” Ashe asks.

“Good,” I say.

“I hope it was spicy enough.”

As he mentions it, I realize my mouth is tingling pleasantly. I hadn’t really thought about it until then, but usually inn fare is far more plain. “You still remember,” I say.

Ashe’s smile creases around his eyes. It’s strange seeing the exact same face I remember from when we were boys, but suddenly wearing a mask of wrinkles and age spots and gray. It makes him no less obnoxiously endearing than he’s ever been.

“Would you like a bath?” Ashe says.

Desperately, but I try to temper my reaction. Days, weeks, _moons_ of dirt and dust lay on me thicker than my cloak.

Ashe rises, needing no verbal confirmation. “I’ll prepare it,” he says.

#

I sink my head below the water. When I come up, my hair sticks to my neck and face. I scrub at it the best I can with my fingers and the rough bar of soap Ashe left me. This damn hair has gotten far too long, but I haven't bothered dealing with it in years. I try to at least get the sweat and dirt and oil out when I have the rare opportunity to do so. Cold rivers and damp rags don't really scrape off the grime of the road, though.

The bath Ashe has prepared in the large wooden tub in a room behind the inn is welcome. It does more than get the dust off my skin. I can already feel it loosening the aches in my hips and back and shoulders. I'll still be sore, no day starts completely pain-free, but it'll be better than it could be. That's something. 

I'm sitting in the tub mostly just enjoying the heat when the door opens. It's Ashe. I know without turning to look and soon his voice confirms it. 

“I thought you might want some clean clothes,” he says. 

I turn and he's setting a neatly folded bundle on a stool beside the tub. 

“I figure mine should still fit you,” Ashe says. “You haven't changed much.” His eyes flicker toward the water. Beneath it.

There's lifetimes in that quick glance, lifetimes when we were boys and he was far smaller, lifetimes when he suddenly shot up, meeting me eye to eye, filling out with muscle from his training. Back then, sharing clothes had seemed not just possible, but enticing. How or why we'd found time during a war for such frivolities is a question I never bothered worrying over. 

He looks softer now. He's clearly put aside his bow, setting his hands to gentler tasks. They suit him, I find myself thinking, and quickly shove the reverie aside. I'll still fit in his clothes, even lean and wiry and hungry as I am. 

“Your hair is long,” Ashe says. 

“It's always been long,” I say. “Yours is long too.” Stacking excuses. Deflecting blows. 

Ashe tugs at the silver hair that's draped like a rope over his shoulder. “I guess that's true.” He walks right up to the side of the tub and I pull back as he folds his arms on the lip. “Where have you been all this time?” Exhaustion finally enters his voice, fraying it around the edges. 

“About,” I say.

“Have you been wandering alone all this time?” Ashe says. He looks like he wants to reach out and I stay just a bit out of his distance. “There were stories. I didn't believe all of them, but sometimes patrons would come in and … it could only be you. I knew it. It almost made me want to go search for you myself, to see if I could catch you before you disappeared again.”

“Why didn't you?” I hate myself for the question, but it's been given voice now and there's no turning back. 

“I didn't think you'd like being caught,” Ashe says. “And I couldn't abandon this place to chase you. Much as I may have wanted to, I couldn't leave my work just to ... just to hope.” 

He's raw and blunt, always has been. It's terrifying, makes my hands itch for a weapon. Not to hurt him. Just to feel something solid tethering me down. 

“And now you're here,” he says. 

“It was an accident,” I say. 

“I know,” he says, refusing to be hurt by the barbs I toss out. “Even so.” Ashe dips his hand in the water. “Come here.” And I do. Which is exactly why I intended to stay away. I always have come when he called, when we were boys, when we were in the middle of a war, and even now, old and aching. 

“Turn around,” he says, and again I obey. 

Ashe starts washing my hair, combing his fingers through the wet strands, scrubbing more thoroughly than I possibly could have. I feel trapped and soothed all at once, even though I know that he'd relent at the least resistance. My confinement isn't his fault, not really, but he's always terrified me for this reason. Time hasn't been able to blunt that. 

“You really became a knight out of a story,” Ashe says as he works. He hums to himself in his lovely, soft voice. I hate it. 

“Not a knight,” I say.

“Hm?” he says, and I don't have the heart to repeat it. I listen to his humming instead. His hands are scratching at my scalp, skimming through my hair. The water murmurs at minute disturbances. A thousand little knots fray loose in my back and shoulders. Ashe's hands slide down my hair, then veer out along my shoulders, encouraging them to unclench. His fingers are still clever and deft as he kneads them into my skin. I feel pleasant pops and clicks; he's breaking my body in quiet little presses and I can't ask him to stop. 

He leans forward, hands still working, his mouth at my ear. “You still smell the same,” he says. “I would have known even without seeing your face. Leather and iron. You really haven't changed.” 

“It's practical,” I say. “My weapons.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says with a tiny, tinkling laugh. “Even so.” 

His breath is at my ear. “You still drink mint tea,” I say, wrestling for control. “You haven't changed either.” 

His laugh is heartier this time and so beautiful that my chest aches in concert. 

I turn, surprising him, and grab his collar. He flushes, even after all this time. His lips are parted around a gasp and I want to drown them, but I hesitate. I can't remember the last time I was touched kindly; I can't remember the last time I even cared. And within hours, he has me naked and hard and grasping at his clothes. It's embarrassing, yet I don't let go. Over all this time and distance, the only thing I've ever really trusted was my own body. 

Ashe sees my hesitation. His hands move to the sides of my face. He's lost his callouses. Smooth thumbs stroke along my jaw. 

He leans close. I can taste the mint of his tea when he kisses me. He's gentle and slow, and I know he can tell how long I've gone without even this simple gesture. Ashe has always been patient. He lets me stay against his mouth for as long as I need. 

We fuck right there against the tub, a puddle forming beneath out feet as I get Ashe out of his clothes and grind desperately against him. I'm clumsy and pathetic and quick. I press against Ashe, rubbing our bodies together, and his musical whimpers and whines are almost enough. I cling to him, his back heaving against my chest. He holds the edge of the tub and rolls his hips as I rut against his thighs like some poor, stupid beast. He uses my hand to get himself off, moving me, guiding me, enduring while I fumble.

Afterward, he looks satisfied and I hate him for it. I sit on the floor trying to catch my breath and he lays his head against my thighs. I set a quivering hand on his shoulder, feeling like I should, like it's the least I should, but not knowing where to go from there. 

“Don't disappear,” Ashe says. His hands are on my legs, holding as though trying to keep me from dispersing on a breeze. 

“It's too late for me to stay anywhere,” I say. “I've been running too long.” 

Ashe pushes up to look me in the eyes. “It's not.” 

I grimace. “I'm too old to change,” I say. “This is all I know.” 

“Is that really how you want to spend your life?” 

“My life is mostly spent,” I say. 

Ashe shakes his head. “Maybe, if you keep running. What if you stopped?”

“I wouldn't know how.”

“I'll show you.” 

The frown deepens, nestling into familiar pathways carved into my face. I don't know how to explain and I don't care to. 

“Stay here tonight,” Ashe says. “Just tonight.” 

“I shouldn't,” I say.

“One night,” Ashe says. “I'm not done yet.” His eyes flicker and my body, traitor that it is, instantly responds. 

He smiles, knowing he's won, and helps me to my feet. We're dressed for long enough to get to his room, then clothes are forgotten for the rest of the night. I do better each time, remembering, relearning. Rediscovering stamina I assumed long lost. 

I agree to stay, just for this one night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/purplebookcover) (18+ please).
> 
> I respond to every comment. Thank you, friends!
> 
> Join the [Ashelix discord](https://discord.gg/cjFuCx) to hear my incoherent screeching about my beloved rarepair!


	2. Two Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashe goes back to being alone. He runs the inn and isn't surprised when Felix leaves, but part of him hopes the wandering swordsman will return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashe Week day four, "friends."
> 
> Three friends reunite in their older years.

Somehow, everything tastes better with company.

#

_Though the innocence of the Duscur people was proven, prejudice against them still lingered in the Kingdom capital. For this reason, Ashe refused a knighthood when it was offered to him, and chose instead to open an inn that specialized in Duscur cuisine. Dedue began to frequent the place on breaks from his duty as the king's vassal, and over time, imparted to Ashe his culinary wisdom. As the inn gained popularity, the people of the Kingdom began finally to see the Duscur people in a positive light. This led to a reconciliation between the two cultures that came rather more quickly than expected._

#

I'm downstairs getting the fire started when Felix enters the common room. It was easy enough to sneak out of bed. He was so exhausted when we finally gave in to sleep last night that he looked truly frightening, his cheeks sunken and hollow, his body limp, devoid of tension for once. I wish he'd slept longer, his body clearly needs the rest, but I simply nod as he reaches the kitchens behind the common room and approaches the hearth where I'm coaxing a fire to life.

“Ashe,” he says. He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot.

I spare him further awkwardness. I never expected him to spend the night, let alone linger in the morning. “Eat,” I say. “Then you can be on your way.”

“Alright,” he says. 

I can't help myself. “You know you can stay longer, if you like.” 

“I know,” he says. 

True to his word, true to his nature, he stays for the span of a meal. Then, he leaves.

#

I have two ghosts.

Dedue returns before Felix does. He brings gifts, he always does. Books for the little one-room schoolhouse down the road, nails and hinges and other iron goods hard to come by in a simple backwoods town, and knives for my kitchens. 

“You didn't have to bring all this,” I say. I say it every time.

“I know,” he says. 

We cook together. The children in the village cluster around his knees, enamored with the tall, broad, stern knight who attends King Dimitri himself. He tells them stories about the king and even with Dedue's concise way of speaking, Dimitri sounds more magnificent than ever. The children love him, they always do. They grew up without the old prejudices. To them, Dedue is a knight, a hero, a king's right-hand man. And nothing else. Someday they will encounter the hatreds of the wider world, but I hope, we hope, that this time is what's imprinted on their hearts. 

And finally, it's just us, alone in my bed, my bed that's hardly had time to get cold between the passing of one ghost and the other. 

He's beautiful. He's never stopped training, believing he needs to be just as strong as he was in his youth to continue defending his liege and lover. And he's confident and gentle and remembers every detail of every night we've ever spent together, recalls secrets I've long forgotten about my own body, as though he has some map that's he's been updating meticulously over the years. 

It makes me feel grateful all over again. Grateful for Dimitri and Dedue, grateful for their generous, unjealous hearts, grateful to feel loved by two people already so in love with each other, people with such an abundance of caring that sometimes one of them comes all the way out here to this little inn in the middle of nowhere. 

Perhaps it is for those reasons that I can't keep anything from him. 

As we lay in the fragile quiet, my head on Dedue's chest, his arm around my waist, I say, “Felix was here.” 

Dedue tenses, just a fraction, but all he says is, “Hm.” 

“It was an accident, a coincidence,” I say. “He looked ... half-dead.” 

“More than half, I'd wager,” Dedue says. 

I can't disagree. “I convinced him to stay a night.” 

I expect another flicker of tension, perhaps a stoic “hm,” but Dedue says, “I'm glad. How is he?” 

“The same as ever, mostly,” I say. 

I can feel the pause coiling in Dedue's chest before he says, “What did he think of this place?”

It's my turn to tense. Felix had not been ... gracious toward Dedue when we were students, and if his attitude and opinions changed as an adult, we saw it mostly on the battlefield, in the faith he placed in Dedue while fighting beside him. But that was not the same as apology. 

“He didn't say,” I concede. 

“What do you believe?”

I mull that over. “He noticed.” I remember his cool, amber eyes sweeping over my inn, over all Dedue and I have struggled to build and maintain. It was clear enough when Felix hated something; no mistaking that. But the look he'd cast about my inn? That was something closer to... 

“If I had to guess, I'd say he was a little surprised, but generally approving.” 

“Hm.” 

We say no more. It is late and we are weary and sleep is too tempting. I am glad I've told him, glad he knows.

#

Several days later, I am even more glad.

Dedue stayed for a single morning. We cooked, a breakfast so elaborate we invited in half the town to help us eat it. 

Then he left and I returned to all the tasks I'd neglected during his brief visit. 

Even days later, there's always plenty to do around the inn. The local children help me weed the garden out back and wash plates and cups and I give them a few coins before sending them off. I start the cooking for the expected evening crowd, check the stores, note what I'll need to stock up on when I head to the market in a couple days. 

By the time the evening's travelers and guests start filtering in, I leave the bulk of the operation to Matelin, the young woman who's been helping me most days. She's smart and capable and I can already foresee a future where she continues the work Dedue and I have started here. She rolls her eyes at me when I promise I'll return after a break. 

“Take a night off, old man.” Matelin uses the moniker with fondness and I can't help but smile. She's like a niece, a daughter, almost, and she knows she can turn me around by the shoulders and shuffle me off to leave the inn to her for a night.

I don't go far. I fetch my pipe and pull a chair into the garden. The sun is setting over the treetops, making the sky look like it's blushing in contentment at the end of another long day. My pipe is a small flicker of red in the gathering gloom. My plants are closing their petals and leaves, drooping their heads toward the earth to rest. I droop alongside them, slouching in the chair, even though I know the poor posture will leave my back aching. 

Two ghosts. I wonder if I'll see either again. Even Dedue's not unlikely visits always feel like gifts. Eventually, one will be the last. He'll be too old to travel or have too much to do in Fhirdiad or get hurt or any of a hundred other likely scenarios. So I try to cherish each encounter, press it to my chest like I'm pressing a flower into the pages of the story of my life. 

It's been a good life, I think as I exhale a puff of smoke, watch it break up in the cooling night air, lose track of it as it melds into the darkness. 

“Ashe.” 

Matelin's voice makes me spin toward the back door. She looks frantic. 

I'm on my feet in an instant. She says no more, leading me into the common room, where two ghosts wait for me. 

Dedue is carrying a limp and bleeding Felix, setting him gently on the floor. Felix groans. I rush to them, kneeling on the floor. Felix's eyes are squeezed shut, his teeth gritted. 

“What happened?” I say. 

“Cowards,” Felix spits.

“He was ambushed on the road,” Dedue says. 

“Bandits,” Felix grits. “I beat them ... once ... revenge...”

“Shh,” I say. “You're hurt bad.” There's blood on his side, blood on his face, blood on his hands. I turn. “Matelin, get a healer, the first one you can find.” 

She needs nothing further. She already has a cloak around her shoulders and is running for the door.

“Dedue, can you get him to my room?” 

Dedue lifts him as cautiously as he can, but Felix still groans. By the time Felix is lying on my bed, he's white and shaking. 

“It is fortunate he was nearby and heading this direction,” Dedue says. He looks at me, raising one eyebrow just a bit. 

“I wasn't...” Felix tries, needing even now to deflect.

“Hush,” I say. “Don't waste your strength on shame.” 

He quiets, at least until the healer comes. Then he grunts and moans as we are forced to move him, stripping him, cleaning out his wounds, helping to keep him upright as the healer works. 

It feels like it takes all night, anxious hours crawling by as Felix gets paler and paler. At the rare times when he opens his eyes, they are glassy and bright with pain. 

But eventually it is over. The healer is optimistic, if exasperated. Dedue and I leave Felix in my room, sleeping in one of the guest rooms instead. 

“Thank you for helping him,” I say.

“I would not have left him,” Dedue says.

“Even so.”

“Dimitri will be ill at ease if I cannot report favorably on his health when I return,” Dedue says.

“You're staying?” I say.

“Until he is well.” 

“Why?” 

Dedue pauses to pick his words. “He is our companion. He has been lost many years.” He smiles at himself. “I suppose I'm curious. Dimitri will be pleased to learn of him.” 

I don't push further this night.

#

Felix heals. Stubbornly and slowly, always insisting he doesn't need our help, ripping open wounds that might have closed if he'd only stay still and rest. The healer leaves him to us after a few days of this. Dedue and I are more patient, and less put off, by Felix's obstinance.

I am bringing him water when I find them talking. Dedue is rewrapping a bandage around Felix's bare torso. 

“Why are you helping me?” Felix says. “I called you … awful things.” 

“When we were boys,” Dedue agrees. 

“That's generous,” Felix says. “And it doesn't excuse the way I spoke to you. Or how I acted.” 

“It doesn't,” Dedue says. 

“So then why? And don't tell me it's because of Ashe.” 

Dedue shrugs. “Perhaps it is him, somewhat. Perhaps Dimitri.” He sets the bandage in place and looks right at Felix, who struggles under the eye contact. “I often wondered how the people I loved most could have such faith in you.” 

Even from where I'm hiding just beyond the doorway, I can see Felix's jaw clench. 

“I have no desire to hate you,” Dedue says. 

“Maybe you should.”

“Do you hate me?” 

“No,” Felix says. 

“I choose to let you be better than you were,” Dedue says.

“You shouldn't forgive me,” Felix says.

“I haven't,” Dedue says. “But that does not mean I must hate you or trap you in the past.” 

Felix pauses. His jaw moves like he's chewing the words. “Very well,” he says. 

“In truth,” Dedue says, “I am eager to see Ashe and Dimitri's faith rewarded.” 

Felix's teeth clench again. He hates expectations. He always has. Isn't that why he ran in the first place?

I enter the room with the pitcher of water, setting it on the table beside the bed, and the conversation withers.

#

I'm not truly nervous until Felix is back on his feet. Even hobbling around, the tightness around his wounds obvious in the stilted way he moves, his restlessness is a physical presence, a cloud hanging over all three of us, but me more so than anyone. I'm the one who will be alone when they both leave, when they both return to their exciting, important lives.

I treasure the time that remains, convincing Felix to play checkers with me in the common room, weeding the garden alongside Dedue, plying them both with my strongest ale to extract stories from their travels. It's nice having Dedue to sleep beside every night, warmer. I sleep so deeply I feel rested for the first time in years.

None of us notice when it becomes normal.

Then the letter arrives. Dimitri, asking after Dedue. Worried. He's never away this long.

And just like that, Dedue announces his intent to leave the very next day. 

I find the bottle of muscatel that night, a gift from the Aegir region. I'd been saving it, but I don't know for what. Now seems as fitting a time as any. 

It is sweet and delicate and light and even Felix can find little fault with it. It is also strong, incredibly strong. I find myself giggling at Dedue's description of Dimitri's diplomatic fumbles. I honestly didn't think I still had _giggling_ in me. Something about the wine and the company and the stories has me feeling decades younger. 

“You both.” I don't realize I've spoken until they're staring at me. The wine has made their eyes blunt and honest, even more so than usual. I'm frightened, and a dozen other less decent emotions, under their combined gazes. 

“We what?” Felix says. 

I have to shake myself. “You both are so amazing,” I say. Felix grimaces. Dedue smiles the fond little smile I only see when he's had a drink or two. 

I struggle to compose myself, but I feel so small before two men who have done so much in their lives. “I just mean--it's impressive. Hearing all your stories. All I've done is run an inn.” 

Felix makes a disgusted sound. 

I pull back a little. 

“You do understand what this place is, don't you?” Felix says. 

I just shake my head. 

Felix glares at something off to the side. Dedue comes to my aid. “This place is special, Ashe. You've done well to create it.” 

“I didn't really ... I mean, I just took over ... And you helped a lot, too,” I say. “This place wouldn't have lasted without you and Dimitri helping.” 

“Hm,” Dedue says. 

Felix looks furious. He's leans across the table, closer to me. “Do you comprehend that this place couldn't have existed when we were all kids? Especially after--” His eyes dart to Dedue. “The Tragedy.” 

Dedue nods. “It would not have been ... welcome.”

“It would have been burned to the ground ten times over,” Felix says. “Back then, I might have started the fire myself.” 

“And now?” Dedue says. 

Felix leans back, crossing his arms over his chest to regard Dedue sitting beside him. “Now I'd sooner beat that arrogant, stupid boy.” 

Dedue shakes his head. “I believe he's been beaten enough.” 

Something passes between them, a twitch of stoic lips. If I didn't know them both so well, I may have missed it. 

Then their eyes move back to me and I notice how my mouth has been hanging open. I take a swig of wine to hide my embarrassment. 

“That bottle is nearly empty,” Felix says. “And so is your inn. Perhaps we should retire somewhere more comfortable.” 

There's no implication behind his words. That's not Felix. Part of me wishes there was. I nod anyway and take the nearly depleted bottle by the neck. I wobble a little when I stand, the full force of the alcohol flooding my head.

We get to my room and Dedue and Felix guide me to my bed. 

“He's even rosier,” Felix remarks. 

Dedue is tugging off my shoes. “Perhaps a bit too much.” 

They stand at the side of the bed, towering over me, tall, beautiful, impossible specters. 

“You should rest,” Dedue says. 

My heart plummets. I sit up, even though it makes my head spin a little. “No, please.” I speak too hastily. I can see how my eagerness pushes them both back a step. “Can we talk a little longer? Please. I ... don't know when I'll see you both again.” 

Dedue comes to sit on the bed beside me, but Felix is still standing, arms folded. I don't care as long as he stays in the room. He's like trying to hold water in your hands, always searching for a crack to slip away through. 

“I will return when I can,” Dedue says. 

“I know,” I say, sullen, ashamed. 

Dedue tilts my face toward his and kisses me right there in front of Felix. “I will stay with you tonight. I know it is not much, but it is what I have to offer.” 

I place my hand over his where it cups my face. “I know.” My own need makes me want to shrink away and hide. I should be too old for it, yet here I am, begging them to ease the loneliness of my small life. 

“I should go,” Felix says.

Dedue and I ease apart. 

“You need not,” Dedue says, “if you like.” 

There is a moment that follows, a moment I'll never forget, as we all process and re-process Dedue's simple statement, delivered in the same tone, the same stoic voice, he's had for most of his life. The moment is heavy as a rain cloud, bursting at the seams. But the rain has not yet come. We all wait, smelling the precipitation in the air, waiting for the cloud to break. 

Felix reaches for the wine bottle and finishes it in several long gulps. “Why the fuck not?” he grumbles. 

The bed is small with three old men negotiating space in it, but age has stripped away our pretenses. Once we're all here, it is a small thing to pause and adjust, to discuss the details. The frantic passion of youth long past, we are patient, descriptive. 

Though, if I'm being honest, I almost feel like a boy again this night. Surely, an old innkeeper isn't inviting king's retainers and wandering warriors into his bed. And yet somehow, this is where I find myself, with one person's mouth on mine, another's hand at my cock. I respond with a vigor I didn't know I still possessed and soon I'm lost among hands and mouths, among muscular bodies softened pleasantly by time. 

I want to taste them both. My mouth can't seem to stay in any one place long. My hands try to feel everything they can reach. 

I'm too eager to please, they both agree. Then I am on my back and they're looking at me, burning me with their cool, placid eyes. 

They are cruel. They make me watch. They make me leave my hands at my sides while theirs roam freely over each other. I can do little more than gnaw at my lips while their mouths learn each other's bodies. I have rarely seen anything so lovely. Felix's hair falls loose while his mouth is on Dedue's cock. Dedue strokes those long, silky locks, running them through his careful fingers. When they switch, when it is Dedue pleasuring Felix, a finger inside him, Dedue positions Felix over me so that curtain of blue-black hair is brushing against my chest while Felix writhes. 

Finally they release me. It feels like I've waited entire lifetimes for their combined touch, for their hands and lips sliding down my body. It has been worth each aching second, all the long years of this life and the hundreds before it.

They unravel me strand by strand, pluck me apart with their teeth, their tongues, their fingers. I am weak and useless in their hands. I am theirs. 

By the time I'm crying at the ceiling, begging gods and goddesses for mercy, clutching at their strong shoulders, I recall their names more clearly than my own. I've carved those names into my throat this night, repeating them in gasps and whimpers until they are imprinted inside me. 

I have nothing left. No words, no pleas, no moans. They kiss a few softer marks onto my body beside the ecstatic bruises they've left, but none of us speak. 

They both stay. At least for a night.

In the morning, they will leave. Even as I drift asleep between them, their limbs draped over me, someone's breath in my hair, I know this. 

But I also know that these wandering, restless ghosts of mine will some day return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really wanted Dedue and Felix to finally have an honest conversation, OK? I don't think it solves every problem IntSys created or anything, but I feel as older men not in the middle of a war, not basically squabbling about Dimitri, maybe they could finally meet eye-to-eye. And also bang.
> 
> I'm sorely tempted to make a third chapter so Dedue can have his own chapter but I dunno...
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/purplebookcover) (18+ please).
> 
> I respond to every comment. Thank you, friends!
> 
> Join the [Ashelix discord](https://discord.gg/cjFuCx) to hear my incoherent screeching about my beloved rarepair! (Ask me for link if it's expired!)


	3. Speechless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedue returns to Ashe's inn for a visit. He searches for the perfect words to describe how he feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the folks who helped me work through this chapter! I tried to treat the subject matter with respect and consulted with folks who had relevant experiences to share.
> 
> This is for day 1 of Ashedue Week! Prompt: Traditions/Duscur

I am the sword and shield of His Highness. I must constantly work to improve.

#

_Though the innocence of the Duscur people was proven, prejudice against them still lingered in the Kingdom capital. Far this reason, Ashe refused a knighthood when it was offered to him, and choose instead to open an inn that specialized in Duscur cuisine. Dedue began to frequent the place on breaks from his duty as the king's vassal, and over time, imparted to Ashe his culinary wisdom. As the inn gained popularity, the people began to see the Duscur people in a positive light. This led to a reconciliation between the two cultures that came rather more quickly than expected._

#

I do not come to this place often, but when I do, he is always waiting.

“Welcome back,” Ashe says as I enter the inn. His inn.

The smell that hits me nearly knocks me off my feet. It smells like spices I've almost forgotten, like dough rising, like flour from a place nearly lost forever. It smells like memories, like home. Like Duscur. 

Ashe has flour on his hands and face. It spots his pale skin like freckles. He reaches out, stopping just before he touches me. 

“Oh, sorry,” he says. “I didn't clean up.”

I grab him before he finishes speaking, pull him close, chase the scent of foods from my boyhood all the way to his lips. He laughs against me as I kiss him, wrapping his arms around my neck. He's on his tiptoes and lowers down to his heels as he draws back, though his hands linger on my shoulders. 

He looks so radiant in this moment, covered in flour, tasting like home, the silver in his long hair darkened by time to gray, that I want to tell him in my own tongue how beautiful he is. I want to use the words constantly humming in the back of my head, constantly threatening to emerge first, before the tangled tongue of Fodlan, to tell him that he is a miracle, a second unlikely miracle in a life I'd almost given up on. 

Instead, I just smile, the words echoing in my chest. 

“Are you hungry?” Ashe says. “The bread is still baking but there's plenty of other food around. How long have you been on the road?” 

“Not long,” I say. 

He takes my hand, pulls me toward the kitchen at the back of his inn. The smell thickens like a blanket wrapping around me. 

“How is Dimitri?” he says. 

“He is well.” 

His kitchen is messy. It is always messy. Like an artist's canvas when a painting is only just starting to take form, splashes of dough and stacks of raw materials like splotches of paint that only have shape and purpose in the artist's mind. I have known him so long that I can see some logic in it, some pattern.

I clean the dust from my hands and take up a task. We don't need to speak to work in concert. But part of me wishes I could, wishes I would. Wishes I knew how to speak just to speak. 

It's not that the silence is uncomfortable or unpleasant. Not with Ashe. With Ashe, the silence is natural, safe and whole. Sometimes, as we work, he hums to himself, his voice hardly louder than the sound of our hands stirring and kneading. 

I wish he'd hum more loudly. Or sing, if he liked. I still wish I'd speak, say the words swirling within me, old and seldom used, but never forgotten. 

I don't. We finish the preparations. Leave the bread to rise, but take the stew with us, enjoying steaming bowls of hearty, warm _chalho_ behind the inn. His garden is flourishing. Sitting in it with my meal, I can imagine how he tends it, on his knees in the dirt, seeing to each plant in turn. 

“You look far away,” Ashe says.

I shake my head. “I apologize.” I set my stew aside and take his hand. “I am here now.” 

He squeezes my hand. “I'm glad.” 

The longing in that simple phrase clutches my heart. I know he wishes I was here more. I know he'd never ask. But at least it isn't just me anymore.

“How is Felix?” 

Ashe's smile turns wistful. “Good, I think. I mean, as good as Felix can be.” 

“He visits?” 

Ashe nods. “More often than I feared. Maybe he's finally slowing down.” 

We laugh at the obstinance of our old companion. Still stubborn as he was as a boy. Yet Felix's actions betray him. He returns over and over to stay with Ashe, to have a breath of comfort for himself. I can see from the smile lingering about Ashe's mouth that Ashe enjoys his company. And I am glad. Truly. 

I cannot love Felix. Not like... Well, not like...

No, I cannot love Felix Fraldarius. But I do not begrudge him growth. And I do not begrudge Ashe some extra sliver of happiness and companionship. 

The inn is busy tonight. It seems to be busy almost every night. I help in the kitchen, though Ashe insists I don't have to. In truth, it is a joy to help him. I've always expressed myself better through cooking, especially here in Fodlan. 

Ashe flits around like a bird hopping from branch to branch. He visits every person who steps into the inn, delivers ale and food himself, slips back into the kitchen to aid with the cooking now and then. I feel exhausted watching him. I may be Dimitri's vassal, but I do not think I've worked this hard in many moons; Ashe does it every night.

I am glad of the woman who helps him, Matelin, I believe. She is young and vibrant, faster than us old men with our aching hands and backs. And she insists on Ashe taking a break, eating, resting his feet.

I smile. She is firm and gentle, guiding Ashe to a stool and setting a drink in his hands before hurrying off to some new task. 

Then Matelin looks to me. A lifetime in Fodlan makes me want to turn away instinctively, but she smiles knowingly, gives me a little nod. I nod in response, a promise of sorts. 

“I like her,” I say.

Ashe laughs. “Are you two conspiring against me already?” 

I shrug.

Ashe sets aside the drink. That will have to be enough to content me and Matelin. He walks up to me, plucks at my shirt to draw me nearer, rises up to kiss me. 

“I could be convinced to go to bed early, you know,” he says. 

“I'd like that.”

We make one more lap through the inn. I still find it odd to see so many different people all congregating in this one place. No one looks at me strangely or makes snide remarks. A few sneak glances, but these are filled with something more akin to awe than hate. I am, to them, the king's vassal, a prestigious guest. There will be talk in the town after I leave, but not about Duscur. 

What an odd place Ashe has built.

“You built it, too,” Ashe says when we retreat to his room. He tosses aside his apron and sinks onto his bed with a sigh. 

I join him. “A little.” I pick out the tie holding his long hair back and start running the strands through my fingers. It's strange to see him with such long hair; part of me wishes he'd grown it out when we were younger. It's lovely on him. 

“This place is yours, too,” he says. “No matter what happens, this place will always belong to you as much as to me. We made it together. I just keep it running.” 

“No small task.” 

“I know,” he says. “It's only because you have more important things to do. I think I'm better suited to something like this than to running a whole kingdom.” 

I put a finger under his chin, turn his face toward mine. I wish I had more words to use. I wish I could phrase things elegantly and profoundly in the moment. All I have to offer is: “That is untrue. And unfair.”

He simply watches me.

“I know something of kings,” I say. “Your work is every bit as important and noble.”

His smile is shy. Ashe casts his eyes down, bashful. It's heart-breakingly beautiful. I tilt his chin back up, kiss him, try to press reassurance against his lips. 

Perhaps I succeed. He relaxes against me, putting his arms around my neck. 

I had to learn to dance, long ago, when it became clear Dimitri would keep me by his side. It was a matter of courtly decorum. That is how I know that there is a concept in dancing called “back leading.” It is when the one meant to follow leads instead, sneakily and silently, guiding the dance while making it look like their partner is in charge.

Ashe is a master of back leading. He knows how easily I might hesitate or sputter. And so even though he lays beneath me, he leads our dance this night, as he has on so many other nights. It is Ashe who removes my shirt, running his hands over my chest as though he's forgotten how it feels. And it is Ashe who turns us over so he might sit on me and trail down my body, licking and sucking as he goes. 

I suspect it is a dance he must perform with Felix as well. I can't fathom the wandering swordsman letting down his guard even in a moment like this. Surely, Ashe must have to coax it out of him while making it seem like he's done nothing at all. 

What burdensome guests he endures. 

I make it easy for him. Or try to. I hope Felix does the same, at least after the initial front is torn down. Why either of us must still pretend with one such as Ashe, I cannot say. It is a strange thing to have in common. 

“Hey,” Ashe says. “Stop that. You're thinking so hard I can practically hear your mind churning.” 

I laugh, mostly at myself, and reach down to stroke his hair. “I'm sorry.” 

“You should be,” he says with a grin. “I'm rather good at this, you know.”

“I do.” 

His smile turns mischievous and he lowers his head again. This time, I dare not think about anything but him. 

It is as he says. He is … quite good at certain things. My petting at his hair turns to grasping; my easy breaths turn to sighs. 

Ashe does not relent, heedless of the pathetic noises I make. Or perhaps relishing them. His skillful mouth and tongue grow bolder, unravel me with practiced precision. 

I am quivering when I drag him up, turn him over, get my mouth on him. Reciprocating does nothing to cool the fever he's started in my body. If anything, I ache more deeply as I use everything I've learned about him to get Ashe panting beneath me. He often remarks that I seem to have him memorized, but how could I forget? It would be like forgetting the ingredients of my favorite meal. 

He pulls at my hair. I groan and shiver.

“Dedue,” he breaths, my name lovely when caressed by his voice.

I take us both in hand and start to stroke. It allows me to watch his face as he crests, his freckles swimming atop flushed cheeks, his eyes squeezed shut, his throat long from the way he arches his head back. I kiss at that pale, exposed skin. It always looked horribly fragile to me, the way it changes color so easily, the way it bruises from something as simple as a kiss. He was born with blemishes, these precious little spots splattered all over him. 

Yet his hands are strong when he grips me. His legs are powerful when he plants his feet to push into my hand.

We writhe together. I keep my eyes open as long as I can, watching his pleasure. It is almost too beautiful to endure. 

And then, just as suddenly, it is over. We are messy and exhausted and sighing, chests heaving together and apart, hearts pounding like they're trying to reach each other. 

“ _Oa de_ \--” The words come on their own, no longer a hum in the back of my mind, but trembling on my lips, threatening to leap out.

Ashe opens his eyes. “Hm? Did you say something?”

I pause, but my heart pulses, pushing those words back to the tip of my tongue, words I haven't spoken aloud in years, words I thought I never needed again, shouldn't bother remembering. And yet, they are the only words in any language that are exactly perfect for this moment. So I let them come.

“ _Oa de aleu_ ,” I say.

And though they are as strange for Ashe to hear as they are for me to say, he understands. 

“I love you, too,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Dedue and Felix's chapters are each about 1,000 words shorter than Ashe's. They also use way less detail in describing literally everything than Ashe does. 
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/purplebookcover) (18+ please).
> 
> I respond to every comment. Thank you, friends!


End file.
